The Demon Catchers of Milan #2: The Halcyon Bird by Kat Beyer

his father had recently begun to believe that his hands were rotting off. He spoke hesitantly, though nothing about him suggested that he would normally hesitate about anything, like punching a man, or kissing a woman, for example. When he detailed his father’s behavior, he glowered as if he were furious. I had a sudden flash of memory, seeing the same expression on my father’s face on the day he found out his own father was dying. I looked at Tommaso again, and this time, I could see the pain behind the stiff pauses. He finished his story at last, and then added, “Forgive me for saying this, but I would never have come to you, except that my mother said this wasn’t for the doctors at the mental hospital. She seemed to think something like this had happened before.”
    “In your family?”
    “Oh, no! At least, I don’t think that’s what she meant. She said something about another family.”
    “This is certainly not unheard of. And she’s right, the psychiatrists, they don’t always understand the causes.”
    “Perhaps,” said the young man, lifting his eyebrows ever so slightly.
    Watching Francesco, I saw that he betrayed no moreconcern about the young man’s skepticism than Nonno. When Giuliano began to ask Tommaso Strozzi specific questions on the details of his father’s condition, I looked away again, annoyed that I found him so attractive. That was when I first noticed the candle.
    As I turned to look at it more closely, Tommaso’s and Nonno’s voices slid away from me; the room, full of minute fires, shrank down to that single failing light. Then it went out, briefly flickering blue, which was not how a candle flame died when it had enough wick. There was no orange coal gleaming in the wick, no smoke. I stood up and put one finger close to the wick, taking great care not to touch it. I couldn’t feel any heat; the candle was as cold as if it had not been lit.
    It’s an old family problem
, I thought.
It comes in families of bankers. The key that opens the door is
—and then not a word but a sensation came to me, a taste, stagnant and musty, like a pond with no way for the water to flow in or out. Still gazing at the candle, I asked myself where all this had come from.
    As the room snapped back into focus, I noticed Francesco watching me, but I didn’t meet his eyes. Giuliano stood up and bowed slightly toward the man at the table.
    “We will call on your father as soon as is convenient for him,” said Nonno.
    “Of course. Thank you for being so understanding.”
    “There’s nothing wrong with skepticism. That is not where the trouble lies.
Buona sera
.”
    They met each other’s eyes for a moment. Then Tommaso nodded. Still ignoring us, he said
buona sera
to Nonno and stepped out the door.
    I could tell Giuliano was about to ask us what we thought of all of this, when the church bells started to ring, and he said, “
Santa Maria
, is that the time? We have to get ready for Nonna’s birthday dinner.”
    I stole the first shower, because I still had to buy a present; then I went to the bike stand in the Via Brera.
    Milan has these wonderful bikes. They’re cream and yellow, like a lemon meringue pie, and they have the city coat of arms printed on them. If you have a membership in the bike-sharing program, you can go to a
stazione
anywhere in the city, swipe your BikeMi card, and take out a bike for thirty minutes, which is always way more time than you need to get to the next stand.
    The bikes are stout and come with a lock and a basket, which is perfect for carrying a history book, a panino, a can of
aranciata amara
, and a spare sweater. I flew all the way to the Libreria Rizzoli in the Galleria, and bought Nonna one of her cheesy romances. The covers look the same as the ones my mom reads, but the words are in Italian instead of English. I had the store lady wrap it in their fancy wrapping paper, found a bike at the Duomo
stazione
, and took off again, this time for the Navigli